Sugarplum Faeries
by OnceUponALullaby
Summary: It's something about that nutcracker. Zemyx. Part of theisraelproject107's 2009 Secret Santa collaboration.


**Written for TwilightFalcon on DeviantART; part of theisraelproject107's 2009 Secret Santa collaboration.

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Sugarplum Faeries

It's Christmas time - the time of sugarplums and candy canes and sweet-smelling candles - and Demyx cannot be happier. Snow falls peacefully outside and the house is filled with the scents of peppermint and pine. Demyx dances around the room, tittering as he tries to decide which presents to open first. His parents are hosting a Christmas celebration and everyone has come; maidens in fancy dresses that his father greets with a leer and a smirk; cocky boys in elaborate tuxes that his mother sneers at and berates. He hovers uncertainly over a small red-ribboned box, and-

"Dem, try the pudding!" Sora is Roxas' half-brother, so Demyx cannot refuse. But he has to admit the boy is strange, with a too-big smile and a rather overbearing personality. Everyone insists Sora is harmless, but Demyx is frightened of him, just a bit. He forces a smile as he accepts the spoon of pudding, and hurries away before Sora can talk to him some more.

He arrives in the ballroom of the mansion, and there in the center of the dancing couples and spouses is his mother's masterpiece - the _ice sculpture_, the one that she spent two entire _days_ carving herself with minimal help from Crazy Uncle Vexen: a four-foot-tall leviathan that glistened in the midst of punch bowls and cakes.

"Demyx?" he can hear Sora calling for him, and looks back to see the boy pushing people aside and waving amidst the throng of people. Demyx starts and cries out in fear, closing his eyes shut and pushing through the crowd so that he _will not have to talk to this strange boy because he frightens him so, so much._ There is a shout of "_Demyx, no!" _and suddenly Demyx is tumbling forward and-

His hand touches something cold and slippery and _oh please God no, don't let this be what he thinks it is_. There is a sharp _crack_ of noise as he rights himself and slowly opens one eye, and his knees are bloody and his arm stings but that is nothing, _nothing_ compared to what he has done. For his mother's precious sculpture is lying in three pieces on the floor, melting into the carpet and people are glaring, glaring right _at_ _him_, and as his mother screams _"Demyx!"_ he decides to cut his losses and run.

Three hours later he finally withdraws from his position in the corner of his room, lifting aside the gossamer curtains encircling the beanbag he had been curled up on. He tiptoes down the grand staircase (don't wake Mother, now, or you'll get in trouble!), pours a glass of milk – will Santa be able to find it in such a terribly large house? – and quietly sets it down on the fireplace, just above the stockings. There should have been some cookies there, but Mother forbade him from leaving them out this year, and the guests have eaten all the food, anyways.

Quietly, Demyx sits down on the cold, marble tiles and begins to cry.

He knows he is being selfish, and that it is his fault that Christmas has been ruined. He knocked down the ice sculpture and now Mother and Father are angry with him. It was his fault that they are not here unwrapping presents with him, and instead of apologizing he's just sitting here sobbing – but he doesn't like fights, see? He should not be crying about something that was all his doing. Demyx sniffs and wipes at his tears, and with this in mind he drags the first present to him across the tiled floor.

Five presents and fifteen minutes later, Demyx looks at the mess of wrapping paper around him and nearly bursts into tears again. The presents have not made him feel any better. It was no fun if you were the only one unwrapping the gifts. He quietly starts to gather up the paper and ribbons, and piles up the five presents he unwrapped into a neat little stack.

Crazy Uncle Vexen has made him a perfect little clock, and a perfect little man in a perfect little box. It is this gift that Demyx likes the most: the little figurine of the scholar, with his eyeglasses and cuffs. He sets the toy on the ground and flashes it a watery smile just as the clock hits twelve, and then-

"Good evening, how may I be of service?"

-And then he must have been dreaming, he _must_, because figurines and toys can't talk, right? Demyx looks around the room and hears movement to his left, but when he turns all he sees is the unsmiling figurine lying carefully in the box of tissue.

"Try closing your eyes for a moment, if you will."

Nervous and a tiny bit frightened of the omnipresent voice, Demyx apprehensively squeezes his eyes shut. He stays like that for a fraction of a second, before cracking open his left eye the barest fraction of an inch, trying to see if the owner of the voice would appear.

"Nothing good comes of cheating, you know," the voice snippily replies, and Demyx flinches and closes his eyes shut tight.

"That's better," the voice chuckles. "You may open your eyes now, if you wish."

Demyx opens his eyes and screams, throwing himself backward onto the Christmas tree, and screws his eyes shut again – although this time in pain - as his hand breaks through a glass ornament and shatters it. There, in the middle of the ballroom floor was a boy – a _boy_! – kneeling on the tile, with his head bowed and his arms outstretched, glancing at Demyx through his fringe of blue-grey hair. A set of thin, wire-framed glasses perched precariously on his nose, and he runs a hand through his messy hair before pushing himself up and dusting his clothes off.

"Are you all right? You look rather… shocked." The boy actually looks surprised as he takes in the scene.

"I'm dreaming, I'm dreaming, I'm _dreaming_!" Demyx mutters, repeating the phrase louder and faster each time. "I'm just _dreaming_! You're not _real_!"

"Oh, come on now," the boy says loudly. He strides towards Demyx with long, purposeful steps while methodically ripping off strips of his shirtsleeves. "Careful," he murmurs, taking Demyx's hand and plucking out the large bits of glass. "You wouldn't want that to get infected."

Demyx nearly pees his pants as the boy wraps the strips of his shirt around his bloody hand, and, sensing this, the boy steps back in annoyance. "Do you have a problem with me?"

Demyx cowers, and something in the boy's eyes soften. He hesitates, before reaching out and slowly pulling Demyx to his feet. "I-I'm sorry." He grits his teeth, and forces a small smile. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Demyx accepts the offered hand and smiles a tentative smile in return. He chuckles nervously, and squeaks, "B-But, you're a _doll_, you're not supposed to talk! You were just sitting there in the box and _oh my God I was going to let you sleep in my _bed_!_"

The boy frowns and shakes his cuffs back. "What are you talking about?" he asks, imperiously pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and glaring down at Demyx. "From what I can see, we are both living, healthy, human males. Not similar to a doll in any way, really, except perhaps in form and looks."

Demyx squeaks angrily – how dare this boy tell him he'd seen wrong! He knew the difference between dolls and humans! – and the boy pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "This wasn't how I expected it to go…" So he holds out a hand to Demyx and balances Demyx's feet on his shoes, and slowly, he begins to dance.

Demyx is surprised, yet also pleased. He doesn't have to do anything except for hold onto the boy's hands, and he begins to relax into the other's arms as they waltz across the empty ballroom.

"Good job," the other boy grins. "Are you relaxed now?"

Demyx blushes, nodding. Oh, how his friends from school would tease him if they saw him dancing with a boy – a _boy!_ But he has to admit – he is having fun. "I still don't understand, though. Who are you?"

The boy stands still, with Demyx still balancing on the tips of his shoes. He chuckles, and his voice gets smoother, lower. "Let me tell you a story about a boy much like yourself. We shall call him Sora, and a very peculiar sort of boy, he was…"

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Demyx wakes to the chimes of the bells. _Christmas time_, they ring. _Wake up, it's Christmas morning._ Demyx smiles and remembers stories of a King, a powerful King who had no heart, and a boy who saved the world from ruin. He closes his eyes and smells sugarplums, tastes peppermint and is reminded of silvery hair and dark eyes. And when he looks around the ballroom, his eyes come to rest on an ornately wrapped silver box, with the little scholar figurine inside.

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Many years later, Demyx is surrounded by his children as they crowd around him for the annual Christmas tale. His wife smiles at him from the couch and hoists the littlest up on her lap, and Demyx reaches up onto the highest shelf in the room and brings down a worn figurine of a scholar, with dusty glasses and faded silvery-blue hair. And as he tells the story of that magical night, he swears that he hears a soft, sarcastic voice humming, _"Good evening, how may I be of service?"_


End file.
